


Under

by Nonesane



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman
Genre: F/M, M/M, Slice of Life, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/pseuds/Nonesane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the life of Mary Morstan, in the year of Her Majesty 1883.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/gifts).



> A million thanks to my wonderful beta-reader onidoko, who edits faster than the speed of light!

It's very cold.

Mary shuts the window and locks it. After giving a creak ominous enough to herald the coming of a great storm it snaps shut, nearly taking the top of her fingers off in the process.

“If window frames could possess personality, I could promise you that one would have a flair for the dramatics.”

Mary starts and nearly tips over a garish vase that some visitor left the day before and that is a size too wide for the window sill. Behind her, taking up every inch of his customary chair, sits Mr. Holmes.

“I'm sorry for ignoring you, sir,” Mary apologizes as her heartbeat calms to a steady thud instead of smattering like bird wings against a cage door. “I was sure you'd taken your guest for a walk in the gardens.”

Mr. Holmes takes no note of her words, almost as if she hadn't spoken at all. “Would you believe me if I told you that window frame reminded me of my brother?” he asks and stuffs his pipe. He lights it with care, as though setting the tobacco alight is the most fascinating thing he's done all day.

“I didn't know you had a brother, sir,” Mary confesses, shifting the vase out of danger.

Mr. Holmes takes a long drag off his pipe and smiles in the faraway manner of a person not quite insane yet, but moving there at his own leisure. “Had, yes. Long dead now, of course.” He inhales once, then lets the smoke and tobacco smell leak from his mouth, slow like treacle. “Jumped from his bedroom window while our parents were having a soirée in the garden– nearly took one Mrs. Alberta Toulson with him out of pure shock.”

“Very sad to hear it, sir,” Mary says, reaching up to pull back the drapes and block out the worst of the sunlight. She doesn't turn around to look Mr. Holmes in the eye.

“Oh, it was years ago,” Mr. Holmes mutters and leans back in his seat, making the old leather groan as if in pain. “He'd planned it very well, mind you – crashed right into our mother's rose bushes and through the rotten wood of an old well lid, connected to the underground river on our estate. We never found the body. Very dramatic.” There's a grin behind the light in Mr. Holmes' eyes now, as if he were telling her a great joke. “He was truly clever, that boy, when he wanted to be.”

“I'm sure he was, sir,” Mary says and her eyes dart from one corner of the airy room to the next, going from the overly decorative vase in the window to a grey-brown painting not yet hung on the wall but leaning against it near the door, over to the abandoned chess game on one of the room's many tables. The pieces are set up in a jumbled order, the queens standing off against each other diagonally, and one of the kings has tumbled over, lying forgotten in a corner near the edge of the white table cloth.

Mr. Holmes’ face splits in what he surely must think is a smile. “Ms. Morstan, if you were to quit your position as tutor, I assure you I would put in a good word for you with Dr. Turner. I have never heard any complaints against you, nor do I have any of my own.”

Mary squares her shoulders. She doesn't have to utter a single word before Mr. Holmes supplies: “You came here one hour before the other volunteers, and you're wearing your finest dress. And get rid of that vase, please. It's absolutely hideous.”

She leaves the room without saying another word.

“It's unsettling when he does that, isn't it? Freezes my blood cold,” a voice to her left says and she has to fight not to jump like a fox found by hounds.

“Elizabeth,” she instead greets the newcomer and smiles as steadily as she can. “If kindly old gentlemen like Mr. Holmes stop your heart, I can hardly imagine how you handle caring for Mr. Jack.”

A grey mouse of a woman shuffles out of the shadows. The only light about her is the flickering spark of the Queen's Medallion hanging around her neck – ever present since the great tragedy in Russia the previous year.

“He's quiet,” she points out, as if it was the answer to all Mary's questions. “And the doctors give him medicine.” This is added with hesitation and Elizabeth glances down at her hands, back up to Mary's face, then down to the floor. “Are you really applying for work _here_?”

“Yes,” Mary replies without a moment's hesitation. “It...suits me.”

Elizabeth gives her a long, piercing look, searching her face like it were a treasure map. Her hand makes a move for her medallion and stops just short of brushing it with her fingertips. “I'll see you at eight,” is the last thing she says before scurrying off.

With a sigh, Mary closes the door to Mr. Holmes' room and makes her way Dr. Turner's office.

*****  
The underground train tunnels are filled to the brim with people – not all of them respectable, mind you – making their way home. Elizabeth huddles closer to Mary as they dodge the elbows of stressed workers and the roaming hands of pickpockets and walk to the edge of the platform.

The train, when it comes, brings with it a cloud of smoke that's more reminiscent of fog than a sign of fire.

“I always feel safe down here,” Elizabeth shares as they board, taking seats at the far end of the wagon. There are no windows, for there is nothing to see outside, but still all the compartments have curtains drawn against the would-be intrusive light.

Mary takes a seat opposite Elizabeth and they both nod to the woman and man already occupying the compartment. Elizabeth's right hand wraps tight around her medallion, and for a moment something akin to a relaxed smile brushes her lips. “I'm sorry for my outburst, but these tunnels are so awe-inspiring. You understand, surely!”

“We both came to London late in our lives, you mean?” Mary murmurs as reply, trying to read the headline of the newspaper the man to her left is leafing through without being too obvious about it. 'Professor Moriarty Returns from the Dead!' is all she sees before the man folds the pages and rests the paper on his knee.

“Exactly,” Elizabeth positively chirps, and, for a brief moment, with her old but clean clothes and beak-like nose, Mary is reminded of the kindly crow from a nursery rhyme otherwise long forgotten.

The rest of the train ride is quiet and Mary ascends the stairs to her station alone when the ride finally ends.

The house of her master isn't small, but neither is it impressive to look upon. It's not worn down, but neither is it splendid. And it's not quiet.

Mr. Denton has company. Two of the three guests hurry off into the shadows as she approaches, but she notes their clothes as they do; dresses, if one could call them that.

The third guest is a familiar face she can't put a name to.

“Ah Mary, you're home early!” Mr. Denton exclaims as the surprise fades from his expression. “You remember my dear friend, Mr. Richard Geary, I'm sure?”

Mary nods and curtsies. Mr. Geary bows and grabs her hand to kiss, giving her a far-too knowing smile. “I didn't know you had a daughter, Aidan,” he quips, keeping her hand in his.

Mr. Denton gives a belly laugh that starts an answering giggle from the neighbouring room where the other two guests still hide. “Mary here is Anton's tutor, as you well know! She's a very good influence on the boy – even volunteers at the House of Silence.”

“The mad house for rich lunatics?” Mr. Geary scoffs, smirk ever-present.

“Oh hush, you!” Mr. Denton scolds, his round face red with cheer and, if his breath isn't lying, drink. “I'd have you know Mary's kind heart is incorruptible – this young lady, **this** young lady!” he goes on, words slurred. “Her father, Queen preserve us, was a, a...” He frowns, scrunching his faces together into an almost thoughtful expression, “well, one of those crazy cultists you hear about, and _still_ she grows to be a pious and civilized citizen!”

“ _Really_?” Mr. Greay murmurs and his hand goes lax enough for Mary to withdraw hers without a struggle.

“I am very tired, sir, would you please excuse me?” she asks. Her gaze goes to the bottle on the mantelpiece between the two men – it's small and green, nearly empty. It contains a powder of some sort, the initials 'Dr. H.J.' engraved near the top of its neck. The label has long since been worn down, though the faint letters forming the word 'vanilla' can still be read near its lower edge.

It's the memory of that bottle and not the whispers of her father that follow her up to bed, past the locked door to Mrs. Denton's room and past the window where young Anton is huddled up, staring at the stars without a word of goodnight to her.

Mary doesn't go to sleep until she hears the front door close. The next day, she packs her bags.

*****

The following morning, to no one's surprise, there's a man waiting in the visitor's room to see Mr. Holmes.

Mary, steps unsteady from lack of sleep, leads the way up the stairs and only briefly reflects over the fact the this man – unlike Mr. Holmes’ innumerable other visitors – hasn't brought a gift of any kind.

“When?” is all Mr. Holmes asks as soon as he spots the man over Mary's shoulder. She's never seen him so pale.

“Six months ago,” the man replies, his voice flat. His tone is the same kind of hollow you'd hear from a man whose house just burned down with his family locked inside.

Mr. Holmes goes very, very still and Mary leaves before either of them say another word. She does throw a glance at the chess board, forgotten in its corner. Mr. Holmes only has eyes for the visitor and the usual request of having it moved to the table by his chair never comes.

Mary keeps busy with work all over the house for the rest of the day. If her movements are clumsy and her answers slow in coming, she attributes this to a lack of rest.

She sees the man as he leaves. He limps down the stairs to the entrance hallway just as she's about to close the first door for the night, and for a moment she thinks he must have been quite handsome before grief ravaged him.

“Excuse me, sir,” she finds herself saying, dragging the man's faraway look back to the present and on her. In for a half, in for a whole. “I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but you look very tired. Are you in need of any help?”

There is a light of kindness in his eyes when he speaks: “No, I'm...I'm all right. I'm sorry for worrying you, Ms...?”

“Mary. Mary Morstan,” she introduces herself, offering her hand. He doesn't kiss it, but neither does he shake it; he holds it like it’s fragile and lets it go after a mere heartbeat of contact.

“Good evening to you, Ms. Morstan,” he answers and the ghost of a charming smile haunts his features. “I'm Shamus Needham, old friend of the Holmes family, as I'm sure you already can tell. You wouldn't happen to know the direction to the nearest butcher shop?”

Mary lifts an eyebrow and gives directions. He leaves without another word.

She takes a final look at Mr. Holmes before she leaves for the night. He isn't, for once, seated in his armchair. Instead, he sits on a rickety chair by the window, the heavy drapes pulled aside to show starlight. His face is a blank mask.

Mary leaves him to the stars and goes home to her rented room and sleep.

*****

The man's name is obviously neither Shamus nor Needham – Mary always has to wait a few seconds or call the name again for him to react, to look up and greet her.

Still, he is a very kind man and the only regular visitor to the House of Silence, other than its staff and patients. After a while, it seems ridiculous not to speak with him, regardless of names and knowing looks from colleges.

He's a butcher, she soon finds out, recently employed at the shop she'd guided him to the evening of their first meeting. When she can afford it, she buys meat there and only convinces herself the first week that it's not to see him. His skills with a knife are as frightening as they are impressive.

But it's not his handsome face or his money that draw her back to him, not even his kind eyes and gentle person. No, it's the number of strange comments he makes.

“I can't stand the tunnels,” he says one day as they're walking in the House's vast garden. “And I can tell that you can’t, either. I suppose it comes with knowing how they were built.”

And all she can do in reply is give a stunned nod.

Another evening, he simply smiles at her and says: “It's been long since I had as good a friend as you.”

In the end, as November draws to a close, he takes a deep breath of freezing air and stares up at the pitch black of night before muttering: “John.”

And for two months' time Mary is happy.

*****

Peace comes to an end as quickly as it had come upon her.

There is a man in John's rooms as they return there after an evening at the theatre. He's an old man, with grey hair and a crooked spine, whose silver eyes glare right through her and make her feel like a child who has broken a precious vase. She recognizes him from somewhere, but doesn't remember where until she spots the books on the table next to him.

No one speaks a word.

The stranger methodically removes his hat, then the grey tufts of hair on his cheeks and straightens up to tower over them both. Mary hears John give a gasp of pure, relieved shock, and he grabs at the back of a nearby chair, as if his knees have buckled.

She looks at the stranger – stares at him. There has never been an image released to the masses, never more than vague descriptions in the papers, yet there can be no doubt who it is she now faces. And she can hardly breathe.

“Mary,” John whispers and she knows this is the first time she truly hears him speak. “Mary, if you've ever loved me, I beg of you, please don't call for help! Let us leave in peace and I swear no harm will come to you or your reputation. We will vanish like ghosts in the light of dawn and you will never hear from us again.”

 _Us_. The word cuts deeper than any of John's butcher knives. “You're leaving,” she says, and she wishes it could be a question.

John doesn't answer her. Instead, he takes a step closer to the stranger, stepping between him and her as if shielding one from the other; it's impossible to tell who from whom.

For a long moment, they stand like that – John's eyes begging her, the stranger's glaring at her – until something about the strange man's face, his eyes, sparks another realisation.

“You're Mr. Holmes' brother.” The words are out before she can think them through and she can see from John's gaping mouth that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“Yes,” the stranger answers before John can say anything, the coldness in his eyes now calculating. “My, my, you chose a clever one, John.” The words aren't as acidic as she would have expected them to be. There are emotions there, pushed back for the moment, but they're not rage or even pity – they're simply not directed at her at all.

John's expression flickers, and as good as she's become at reading him she has no idea what that brief glimpse means.

“We will speak in private,” the stranger states and drops the last of his disguise on the floor. “And you, Ms. Morstan, will not speak at all, if you wish to live.”

“The visitors,” Mary finds herself muttering, as John’s gaze sinks to the floor. “The chess games...”

“You don't think my brother such a fool that he'd use a code as simple as that?” The stranger sniffs and fiddles with his sleeves, pulling at them to fully cover his wrists, but not before Mary can catch a flash of the hideous scars carved into the skin.

Still, his words disturb her more than his marks. She thinks back to the rows of visitors, the endless supply of gifts that, in the end, always were thrown out or given away.

“The placement of the vases and paintings were vital to how the game was to be interpreted.” He fills out her thoughts so eerily, like his brother, a touch of smugness in his voice. “And do not think for a second Mycroft will be fool enough to remain in harm's way – should you call the attention of the police in any way, today or later, all you will gain is ridicule. Good evening, Ms. Morstan.”

The stranger sweeps the door wide open with one tug and walks off. He doesn't even look back over his shoulder to see if John follows.

John, in his turn, gives her a shrug that's almost apologetic and then, as she should have guessed, leaves as well.

Mary sweeps her shawl tighter around herself.

It's very cold.


End file.
